My Side of the Story, Sherlock Holmes
by Sandylee007
Summary: ONE PART OF INDEPENDENT TWIN-FICS. We all know how Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson were torn apart. We've also seen how they were reunited. But what happened in between? One chapter for each month they spent apart. Sherlock Holmes' story.
1. June, Homeless

A/N: (**This start-note is identical to that of the twin-fic. 'Just so you won't get confused.**)

Soooo, I decided to try something entirely new. At first I thought about giving just Sherlock his 'What happened during the time-skip?' story, but then it occurred to me that perhaps John deserves his own tale, too. Especially since it's clear that A LOT happened to them both during those months and years. So, here we are. I'm about launch a twin story. Oh dear…! (chuckles)

TO GET IN TO THE WORLD OF ONE OF THESE STORY-TWINS READING THE OTHER IS IN NO WAY NECESSARY. So no worries!

FULL SUMMARY: What happened to Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson during the time Sherlock was dead to the world? Each fighting the war on their own, they struggle to survive in a world that will never be the same again. We all know how the journey ended. But what happened along the way?

THE LENGTH OF THE CHAPTERS WILL VARY GREATLY.

DISCLAIMER: Oh, if only…! But nope, I'm not one of those FANTASTIC people who gave us this gift of a series. (sighs gloomily) There will be some quotes in this fic, and nope, I don't own those, either.

WARNINGS: SOME SERIES 3 SPOILERS. Adult themes. Violence. Gore. Depression. Language. (blinks, and looks around) Um… Anyone there…?

Alright, folks…! Since this is REALLY new and nerve-wrecking for me I'd better get going before I change my mind. (gulps) I REALLY hope that you'll enjoy the ride!

* * *

_**My Side of the Story, Sherlock Holmes**_

* * *

June – Homeless

* * *

Sherlock Holmes hated the small, shadowy, windowless room around him. According Mycroft Holmes it was the safest place in the world. To him it was a prison. Or perhaps a tomb.

Well, technically he was a dead man…

Sherlock breathed in deep, then out, almost persistently enough to make himself feel dizzy. It didn't really help. His mind kept spinning around in circles while he was supposed to focus on the long, merciless chase ahead of him.

* * *

/ _"Nobody could be that clever."_

_"You could."_ /

* * *

Dr. John Watson believed in him. Fiercely. Without a doubt. Despite everything he'd done to the doctor, despite all the things that he'd said, although according to all sense the former soldier should've been running away as fast as he could. If anything John had been running to follow him from the very beginning.

This… What Sherlock just put that stupidly loyal man through… Even he could tell that it was a lot of not good. He wondered if it was unforgivable.

He also wondered if he'd get the chance to find out.

Sherlock's eyes darted towards Mycroft when the man entered the room. His brother's eyes were as infuriatingly unreadable as always. "In case you're wondering, Dr. Watson made it home safely. At the moment he's under strict surveillance."

Sherlock gritted his teeth. His left hand twitched slightly under a wave of unwanted sentiment. The silence stretched before he broke it. "When am I going to get out of here?"

Mycroft gave him a dry look. Nearly rolled his eyes. "Would a simple 'thank you' hurt, Sherlock?"

Sherlock met the look with a haughty, pointed one of his own. He lifted his jaw a little. "I'll thank you once you've successfully completed the task appointed to you." He gritted his teeth. "Now when… am I going to get out of here?"

Mycroft sighed, like a parent beginning to grow tired of a acting up child. "We both know that we need to wait for a while. For the dust to settle. For the curiosity of people to become fixed elsewhere. Right now you're the one everyone in the whole city is speaking of. We can't risk you being seen just yet." At that very moment the older man seemed to see far too much. "As for your other request… Yes, I will continue to keep an eye on Dr. Watson. I'll have to be discreet, though. As it turns out he's quite cross with me right now. His loyalty to you is almost endearing."

Sherlock didn't say anything. Couldn't find the words. Instead he emitted a gruff, clearly displeased sound and lay down, pointedly turning his back on Mycroft.

"Alright, then. I'll need to go and call mommy. She's quite anxious about all of this." Clearly deciding that he'd had enough of his younger brother's attitude Mycroft turned, beginning to head out of the room. "Rest well, brother dear. You are most certainly going to need it."

Sherlock barely heard his brother leaving. All he could focus on were his tangled thoughts and the quite new, unpleasant feeling swirling in the pit of his stomach. He couldn't name the feeling but it intensified whenever he thought of the path ahead of him.

He took a brand new deep breath, his fists balling.

As it was Sherlock was on his way to the unknown. But if he'd manage to fight hard enough, if he'd survive… One day he'd make it back home. To John.

That thought, a distant and unreliable promise, was enough to lull him into a couple of hours of dreamless sleep.

* * *

TBC OR NOT?

* * *

A/N: Poor Sherlock! Sherlock's in for such a long, tough ride. And all he wants is to go back home. (winces)

Soooo… Was that any good, at all? Or should I just cut this one short?

PLEASE, let me know your thoughts! It'd mean a lot to me, especially at the beginning of a new story. (Or is it 'stories'…?)

In any case, thank you so much for reading! (hugs) Maybe I'll c ya guys again soon…?

Take care!


	2. July, To the Unknown

A/N: It took me longer than I would've liked but I'm baaaaaaaaack. (grins) Hooray?

THANK YOU, so much, for your reviews, listings and love for the first chapter! Starting out stories is always nerve-wrecking so it's good to know that you're out there rooting for me. (hugs) Thank you!

Awkay, before I get all sentimental, let's go! 'Hope you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

July – To the Unknown

* * *

The days passed by unbearably slowly for Sherlock while he prepared himself for his upcoming task. He had too much time to think. Entirely too much time focus on things that he should've deleted from his hardrive.

At least the data on Moriarty's known network kept Sherlock busy. He went through the pictures and lists of names, memorizing each and every single one. If he was planning on going head first into the war at very least he needed to know what he was up against.

Sherlock's eyes shifted instantly when Mycroft walked into the room. His eyebrows furrowed while he took in the look on his brother's face. "Something's wrong." It was a statement, not a question. A very uncomfortable feeling began to swell in the pit of his stomach.

"Nothing you'd need to worry about. I've already arranged someone to take care of it." Mycroft placed something to the table.

Unable to contain his curiosity Sherlock gave the mystery item a look. He snorted upon discovering Operation. "That game is for children", he pointed out.

Mycroft shrugged, sitting down without having been asked to. "Yes. That's never bothered you before."

Sherlock growled but didn't really have anything to fire back. Like a petulant child he relented, trying to transfer his focus to the game. He didn't like the way his hands were trembling.

"Something's wrong", he announced again. In less than two seconds he scanned the older man from head to toe. "There are wrinkles on your forehead that don't normally show and the right corner of your mouth keeps twitching. You're worried."

"Yes. And you're bored and craving. You've already smoked twenty-two cigarettes and it's not even two o'clock." Mycroft thought for a moment, in the meantime making his next move. "Or no, make that twenty-four. I also know that you've been sneaking out. I really need to ask you not to do that. Several lives depend on it." His brother gave him a pointed look. "Including John's."

Sherlock stiffened and felt his chest tighten painfully at that. Risking John's life… Well, it wasn't acceptable. He made his own move. "Don't worry, I haven't been walzing through the streets of London in broad daylight", he assured snarkily. "I've been activating my own network. Just in case yours happens to fail."

Mycroft wrinkled his nose. "Why you work with those people is beyond me." The man inhaled loudly. "Just so you know… We're almost ready to begin. I'm trying to arrange all the necessary equipment and documents for you. You'll be headed to Asia in less than two weeks."

Sherlock's heart thudded. So he'd be on his way very soon. There was a chance that he'd never, ever get to come back. All of a sudden something he'd only experienced a few times before took over. "I want to see John before I leave." Just in case…

Mycroft gave him a long look but miraculously enough seemed to decide not to mock him. Instead the government official sighed. "Sherlock… Something like that isn't easily arranged. We'd have to make sure that he or anyone else wouldn't see you. But I'll see what I can do."

Sherlock nodded, deciding that it was the best he could come up with at the moment.

_You know, I'm sure that he'd appreciate a bit of gratitude from time to time_, John's voice pointed out.

Sherlock wondered how much longer just hearing John's voice in his head would be enough of comfort. He scowled, feeling irritated and pained in a way that he couldn't quite explain. "Shut up, John", he muttered under his breath.

Mycroft looked up. "What did you say?"

"Nothing, Mycroft. Nothing at all."

* * *

Mycroft was there waiting for Sherlock when he left the cemetery and slipped into a entirely too familiar black car. "Well? Did you get what you came here for?"

Sherlock's eyes were lava and there was a crushing weight on top of his chest when he glared at his brother. "You know perfectly well that I didn't", he snapped, looking away pointedly. The shadows appeared longer than they should've. "He… isn't well."

He felt Mycroft watching him for a long moment before the man sighed. "It's like I've always said, brother dear. Caring isn't an advantage."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, in some miraculous way managing to bite back the venom on the tip of his tongue. He waited until John's voice had stopped echoing in his ears until he decided to try his voice. "Yes, opinion noted. Now do shut up."

Mycroft gave him a dry look. "There's no need to act like a child." There was something he couldn't quite read in his brother's eyes. "If you wish to make it through your assignment you're going to need a clear head. Unnecessary distractions might lead to… unwanted results."

"So you're telling me to forget about everything?"

Mycroft's eyebrow bounced up. "You sound offended."

Sherlock growled. It was getting increasingly hard not to punch the older Holmes. "Just give me the file. Shouldn't I be focusing on that?"

Understanding seemed to shimmer in Mycroft's eyes. Without any further questions the government official handed a thick file towards him. "Moriarty's web has a rather large cell in China. Getting to this man might be a great help in finding the very root of it."

The man appeared younger than Sherlock had expected. Clearly Asian features, nearly black eyes and chocolate brown hair. Rather small but muscular. Sherlock was quick to spot the snake-tattoo that spiraled the criminal's right hand from wrist to elbow.

"His name is Huan Wei. He's been working for Moriarty since he was sixteen. A older member of the web had him tangled with helping him out of a drug related trouble. He still uses whenever he isn't taking care of some assignment of very little importance. He isn't a valuable piece of the network but could turn out to be a good source of information."

Sherlock nodded, eyeing on the picture of his target. Well, if he had to start somewhere… "I assume that you have some sort of a idea where to find him?"

"There's a club where he likes to go when he's after certain pleasures." Mycroft gave him a long, hard look. "That place is full of Moriarty's men. I'm expecting you to keep a low profile. Is that understood?"

Sherlock wrinkled his nose although his heart was pounding from adrenaline and a healthy dosage of anxiety. "You're starting to sound worse than mother."

By then they'd reached their destination. Stepping out of the vehicle a bit faster than would've been necessary Sherlock looked at the private jet directly before him. Just a few more steps and he'd be taken away from everything he'd known.

"Sherlock." Was that fear and worry in Mycroft's eyes? Could it really be? "I'm expecting you to be careful out there."

Sherlock scoffed. It sounded a lot softer than it was supposed to. "Don't try sentiment, Mycroft. It doesn't suit you." His tone wasn't quite the one he'd been aiming for, either.

With that everything necessary had been said. Sherlock turned sharply and made his way to the jet, constantly fighting to keep himself from looking back on the life he was leaving behind. He pretended that he didn't feel Mycroft's eyes on him the entire way.

_Friends protect people_, John's voice rang loud and clear in his head.

Sherlock was planning on doing just that.

* * *

With his hair dyed blond and almost pitch-black contact lenses on Sherlock looked just as little like himself as he felt when gliding through a rather large Chinese nightclub. His clothes, tight black pants and a just as dark shirt that hugged his frame, didn't make him feel any more comfortable. He tried to ignore the looks darted his way while he marched on.

Well, blending in had never been exactly his territory…

It didn't take him long to spot Huan Wei. In a few moments he caught all the signs that felt uncomfortably familiar. The man was very, very high. This might turn out to be easier than he'd ever thought.

Sherlock did his best to maintain the cool façade while he made his way a bit closer to the criminal. There were fifteen steps between them when Huan noticed him. Their eyes locked and held. A loudly speaking smirk took over the smaller man's face. Sherlock's eyebrow bounced up while he created a rather similar expression.

He didn't go to his target, though. Instead he ordered himself a gin tonic and focused on his drink. He didn't have to wait long.

"_What sort of a drink is that?_" From the corner of his eye he saw Huan standing beside him. "_Let me order you a proper one._"

Sherlock blinked twice, attempting to appear intoxicated. "Sorry, what? My Chinese is still rusty." He hoped that his accent sounded American enough to fool his far from sober companion.

"Oh, I'm so sorry!" Huan's accent was very thick and the fact that the man was slurring didn't make understanding him any easier. The smirk from before became something predatory. "Well, this explains why I haven't seen you around. You're new."

Sherlock nodded, measuring up the other man. A gun and a knife. Even though the criminal was most likely in no condition to pose a threat there was no point in taking unnecessary risks. "That's right."

"Well, then…" Huan was almost purring. The man's hand was far from steady while it offered a exotic looking drink towards him. "For your first night here, Stranger."

Sherlock did his best to appear just as reluctant and unimpressed as he felt. "And I should accept that because…?"

For a moment fury flashed in Huan's eyes. Then a dangerous looking grin broke out. "Because I work for the most powerful man in the world."

"Does this boss of yours have a name?"

"Oh, he has a name alright." Huan looked around, as though making sure that no one was listening although anyone within earshot would've caught too much already. The man reeked of cigarettes, alcohol and something sickeningly sweet while leaning closer, directly to his ear. The club was so loud that he barely caught the name. "James Moriarty."

For the upcoming two hours Juan latched himself to Sherlock's company. Spilling out information – important people, locations, upcoming operations – clearly in hopes of impressing his chosen companion for the night. Sherlock played along the best as he could, imprinting every little important detail to his mind.

In the end Huan offered to show him his sword collection. Seeing that the man was already beginning to lose his footing Sherlock agreed, seeing a opportunity. He wasn't surprised when Huan passed out on the couch less than three minutes after they entered the man's flat.

For a couple of minutes Sherlock looked around, taking in the massive space and the bizarre items scattered absolutely everywhere. Then he saw a laptop, with a flash drive attached to it. Carefully making sure that the criminal was asleep Sherlock began to inspect the item.

It was easy enough to crack the password. The smug idiot had used his own full name. In a moment several files were open before him. Lists of contacts, all of them Moriarty's trusted men. Plans. A lot of material Sherlock shouldn't have been able to access. Evidence of a web that went far wider and deeper than he'd ever imagined.

Moriarty… had made his way _everywhere_.

While sending copies of all the files to his brother Sherlock found his mind whirring madly. He left the apartment swiftly, carefully avoiding the troupes coming to arrest the criminal. His heart and feet were heavy while he made his way down the street, towards the unknown.

Somehow home felt further away then ever before.

* * *

TBC?

* * *

A/N: And so it begins. Poor Sherlock is only just realizing how very long of a project there's ahead of him. (winces) It's only going to get tougher from here.

PLEASE, do leave a note to let me know your thoughts. It'd seriously mean A LOT to me!

I've really gotta get going because bedtime's calling me. (yawns) Until next time, folks, with whichever story that might be!

Take care!


	3. August, Bleeding and Breathing

A/N: Gah! I'm so, so sorry! It took me far too long to get back to this story. (winces) I was short of typing time and had a little adventure. But now I'm back, sooo… Yay?

First things first, though! THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for your reviews and support for this story! It makes me feel all warm and fuzzy. (HUGS) So thank you!

Awkay. It's already been waaaaaaaaay too long, so… Let's go. (gulps) I truly hope that you'll enjoy the ride.

* * *

August – Bleeding and Breathing

* * *

It was getting late and Sherlock was trembling down to his very core while he made his way through a rainy Warsaw. His hand was pressed almost convulsively against his side and in the pale light of street lamps one could just see the red staining his white knuckles. Sherlock knew, better than well, that he would've been in need of medical assistance but at the moment such was out of the question.

Due to a slipup he could only call idiotic he'd managed to attract the attention of some wrong people. Entering some hospital or clinic… well, wouldn't be a very good idea. And he'd had his share of bad ideas already.

The motel room Sherlock stumbled into twenty-six endless minutes later was quiet and cold. It didn't look like any human being could possibly live in it although he'd spent the past three days in the kip. With a wince the shadows were almost enough to cover he slumped to the floor, leaning heavily against the wall. Of course he should've tended to the wound first. Instead he used the hand that wasn't pressing against the agonizingly pained, pulsating wound and pulled out a cigarette. Lighting it with a single hand was a challenge but there was very little Sherlock wasn't able to do if he put his mind on it.

Sitting there, struggling with all his might against the fog that wanted to take over his head, Sherlock allowed his gaze to linger. A shiver crossed him when he saw his cell phone. All of a sudden the pain that came over him was a thousand times worse than the one radiating from his side.

John… He would've needed a doctor, right now. He would've needed…

It would've been so easy to just pick up the phone and…

"You're getting careless", a entirely too familiar voice chastised him. A person who infuriatingly obviously couldn't be more than a trick of his imagination glanced towards his wound while approaching, then sat down. "It's almost as if you're _trying_ to get yourself killed."

Sherlock growled, trying to find a position that wouldn't make him feel like half of his body had been torn to pieces. "Shut up, John."

"Your death wish may be granted soon." Imaginary John wrinkled his nose at the cigarette. "Those things will kill you if the stab wound doesn't manage to do the job first."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. He was feeling exhausted and miserable. The last thing he needed was his mind playing cruel tricks on him. "Don't be overly dramatic. It isn't deep enough to make me bleed to death."

"Infections a lethal, too. Surely you know that much." John's face seemed startlingly familiar, yet the detective wondered how many little details he'd already missed. The comforting voice in his head went on. "Now stop feeling sorry for yourself, get up and do something about that wound, you git."

The cigarette was almost finished. Sherlock tossed the rest of it to a filthy ashtray, then prepared himself with a deep breath and hauled his transport up. In an instant he bit his lip to keep himself from screaming while white hot pain shot through.

"Breathe through it, Sherlock. You've had worse." John's voice was stern yet there was also a touch of softness he found himself clinging to. "You didn't fool Moriarty himself just to let some moron's knife bring you down."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed while he indeed focused on breathing for a few moments. "Shut… up, John", he snarled. He wished, from the bottom of his heart and soul, that he would've been able to order around something more than a trick of his imagination.

Cleaning up the wound turned out to be a taunting task. The blade was swift and brutal, meaning that the injury it left behind was messy. He worked on it as well as he could, even did his best to put on some stitches like he'd studied from one of John's books. The final result wasn't perfect and would probably scar horribly but at least he wasn't bleeding anymore.

He just… He wanted to sleep, so badly. Which was a foreign desire to him. When was the last time he slept longer than twenty minutes?

The lack of rest was clearly impairing the functions of his mind if he couldn't even remember something as simple as that.

When Sherlock stumbled out of the bathroom the painfully not real John was there once more. "You should go to sleep", the doctor pointed out. "You must be in a world of agony, since at the moment you don't have any relief laying around."

Feeling ridiculously self-conscious although he was all alone Sherlock put on a cream colored jumper to cover his wounded upper body. It didn't make him feel a lot warmer. "Stop fussing. This is nothing but a minor setback. Soon I'll finish this… assignment. And then I'll go back home." He didn't know why he wanted to say it so badly. Maybe if he'd repeat it enough times he'd start to believe it.

The reflection of John his mind created smiled a bit sadly. "I'll have to take your word on it, I suppose. Now rest."

For a few more seconds Sherlock just stood there, as though feeling lost. Then he looked towards the cell phone again and made his decision. Working furiously to push all ache from his mind he marched towards the item and took it, then made his way to the room's pitiable, small bed. It screamed under his weight and something hard pressed painfully against his back but he barely noticed.

Pretending that the made up version of his best friend would still be there when he woke up Sherlock closed his eyes and in a few moments found himself dreaming.

Dreaming of happier times. Dreaming of days when he wouldn't be all alone in the world anymore. Dreaming of a home that he could only hope would still be there.

And although Sherlock was trembling miserably from cold and a slowly rising fever there was a faint smile on his sleeping face. He was squeezing the cell phone so hard that his knuckles had turned white.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Poor, poor Sherlock! It'd be so good to give him a hug, no matter how little he'd like it. (winces)

Before you go, PLEASE, do leave a note! Good, bad, luke-warm? There's only one way to let me know.

Until next time! I truly hope that I'll see ya all then.

Take care!

* * *

**no**: I'm truly sorry for that annoying little habit. I suppose that it's my insecurity talking. (winces) But I promise to try and improve my ways.

I'm glad that hear that you've found the story thus far promising!

Thank you so much for the review!


	4. September, Lonely Hearts

A/N: I'm so, so sorry that it took me this long to update! Other projects and summer vacation have stolen my time. (winces)

THANK YOU, from the bottom of my heart, for you absolutely amazing review! They're precious, all of them. (HUGS)

Awkay, because time's running out I'll have to cut this short and get going. I REALLY hope that you'll find the chapter worth the wait!

SONG RECOMMENDATION: '21 Guns'.

* * *

September – Lonely Hearts

* * *

The small apartment that'd been furnitured in a very simple way breathed the air of being nothing but a temporary hideout. It was the apartment of a person who was prepared to take off quickly at any time of the day and leave everything behind. It was dark, with only streetlights and a hint of moonlight helping cast chilling shadows to the walls. Aside the heavily falling rain the only sound heard was the constantly intensifying drumming of fingers. Sherlock sat on a uncomfortable chair in the middle of the apartment's only room, his posture straight and his whole being breathing feigned patience. Even in the dark his eyes gleamed like those of a beast that was waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

The only reaction Sherlock gave was a sudden blink when Mycroft's voice came from his earpiece. "_He's coming back home. Approximately fifty seconds until he reaches the door._"

Sherlock didn't give even a hint that he would've heard. He used those precious seconds with recapping what he knew of this newest target. Pieced together all the facts before the inevitable meeting.

Matthias Hummel, forty-three. Moriarty's most important man in Germany. Someone who had contacts throughout Europe and thus a very important source of information. Highly likely the most valuable catch they'd had so far.

A key turned in the lock. Sherlock's eyes sharpened while his whole body tensed up in preparation. In a flash he moved, blending effortlessly into the shadows.

Matthias took three steps into the apartment until the man froze. Obviously seeing the misplaced chair even without switching on the lights. Probably sensing a foreign presence. A hand was quick to reach out towards a gun that was hidden carefully into the covers of the criminal's black leather jacket. "_Who the hell is in here?_" the man growled.

"_A ghost_", Sherlock replied half truthfully. And in that same instant he'd plunged a needle to Matthias' neck. He delivered the injection with well practised ease.

A mere flash after that needle was gone Matthias spun around, pointing a gun directly at his forehead. The palaness of the criminal's face had nothing to do with the drug. "_You…!_" the man spat. "_You're dead!_" Those pupils were already dilated. It was only a matter before consciousness would be lost.

Sherlock shrugged. "_Perhaps. It's hard to know for sure, isn't it?_" He tilted his head, feeling far more pleasure than he probably should've. "_It's probably already getting hard to keep your eyes open._"

True enough, Matthias' hold on the gun broke. It fell the floor incredibly loudly about three seconds before the criminal himself followed. Matthias stared at him with bright, dazed blue eyes, a manic grin taking over. "_You… You slipped from us, you son of a bitch_", the German slurred. Cold sweat was breaking through, plastering shortcut hay colored hair to the man's forehead. "_But that doctor of yours… He won't be so lucky. You get me… and they'll get him._"

Shrelock most definitely wasn't a man of sentiment. But at that very moment a ice cold, impossibly painful dagger went through him. Harsh and agonizing enough to take his breath away for a few seconds. He'd only experienced similar once before. "_They?_" It was the growl of a wounded, dangerous wild animal.

Matthias smirked even wider. Obviously enjoying the situation. "_Sherlock, Sherlock… You miscalculated. The web… It's far bigger than you or your brother could even imagine._" No matter how hazy those eyes were they seemed hazardous. "_You think… that you saved them with your little fall? Saved John? Guess again._"

At that moment a storm of rage, terror and helplessness took over Sherlock. "_Sherlock, don't listen to him!_" Mycroft's warning was hopelessly too late.

Without even the slightest bit of doubt Sherlock attacked the man on the floor. A sick wave of pleasure flowed through him when his fist connected with the criminal's cheeck, then all over again with the nose and he heard the nauseating sound of bone breaking. Seeing the blood that seeped only fueled his determination. Three more times Sherlock's fist pummeled Matthias' face, each new strike gaining a fresh load of determination and despair.

When Sherlock finally had to pause, panting heavily, Matthias snickered coldly and spat blood at his trademark long coat. One tooth flew as well. "_John Watson is going to die_", the killer hissed like a snake, those barely open eyes meeting his with firmness they shouldn't have been able to possess anymore.

For a while Sherlock stared at the man's face, took in the conviction. Remained paralyzed by the sheer ache surging everywhere inside of him. Then, his eyes growing dark with resolve, he took Matthias' gun and pressed it firmly against the man's head. In the heat of the moment he didn't even notice how blurred his own vision was, much less bothered to wonder the reason.

"_Sherlock, stop!_" Mycroft screamed at his ear. "_We need him alive! Don't do this!_"

And then the apartment's door was forced open. In a flash several sets of running steps entered. While four of Mycroft's employees worked on Matthias three more grabbed him, using all their force to tear him off of the criminal. He snarled protests and struggled with all his might but he'd used most of his strength on Matthias.

The last thing he saw before they took him away was that infuriating, bloodied grin.

* * *

Much to his own irritation Sherlock wasn't entirely sure how long passed. But eventually he was sitting in the back of a massive, black van. This time he didn't even notice the orange blanket that'd been thrown over his shoulders. His eyes were directed at the vehicle's floor. Still all that filled his vision was Matthias' smirking, blood stained face.

/ _"John Watson is going to die."_ /

He shivered when the van's door opened. The tension in his muscles eased only slightly when he distinguished Mycroft while his brother climbed in and took a seat beside him, a grim look on his face. "Are you alright?"

Sherlock's response was a somewhat filthy, loudly speaking look.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and sighed. There was a minute or two of silence. "Sherlock… You need to remember that John is well protected. My men are keeping an eye on him at all times. There's no way any of Moriarty's men would get to him."

Sherlock's gaze blazed when he glared at his brother. It was the second time in a matter of hours he was oblivious to the hellish stinging in his eyes. "Do you really think that that's enough?" he spat, unleashing all his pain in that rare moment of lost control.

Mycroft's eyes were sad, or perhaps pitying, when the older Holmes looked at him. The government official sighed heavily. "For now it has to be." With those words the man left the vehicle, the door sliding closed leaving a hollow echo.

For a few endlessly long moments Sherlock sat completely still until he became aware of the item in his hold. He looked down to discover his new cell phone Mycroft got him a couple of months earlier. A familiar name flashed on screen. All it took to make a call was one press of a button.

'_John_' So deceitfully plain and simple.

Sherlock knew that it was idiotic. Dangerous. But his finger was faster than his brain.

His call met the voicemail. "_You've been trying to reach Dr. John Watson. Unfortunately I'm not able to pick up right now but leave a message…_"

Sherlock hung up as fast as humanly possible and threw the phone to the van's wall like the item had burned, watching it shatter to pieces. Then, with both hands free, he buried his face to them. It took all he had to keep the scream bottling up in the back of his throat from climbing out.

It wasn't until then Sherlock noticed the tears that'd rolled to his cheeks.

* * *

TBC

* * *

A/N: Okay, now that was emotional. (gulps) Poor Sherlock! His time away from John is really taking its toll.

PLEASE, do leave a note! It'd make my day to hear from you.

Ugh, I'm hopelessly late by now so I've really gotta go. (winces) I really hope that I'll see you all next time!

Take care!


End file.
